


devour me whole

by mitochondriencocktail



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying, M/M, dubcon, incubus Richard, my cumplay kink peeks through a bit too, sort of, there's also one slur, you know how it is with them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 13:44:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11670288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitochondriencocktail/pseuds/mitochondriencocktail
Summary: Richard turns into an incubus. He doesn't know why, or how, but he knows he needs to live. He tries to hide it in between late night trysts from the bar, but it takes its toll, and he's desperate to find another solution. Jared steps in.





	devour me whole

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all! Here's a fic where I'm not very nice to Richard, but then he's okay in the end. Heads up for dubcon with strangers, lots of Richard crying. Any and all feedback is what I Thrive Off Of. Support your local writers with lots of praise.

The barstool is very uncomfortable underneath him. Richard Hendricks fidgets and readjusts his position what feels like a myriad of times in just under ten minutes, and it still feels like there’s something wrong with the damn stool. He scratches at his throat with too-blunt, bitten down nails and waits. A man sits next to him. Burly, leather-jacketed, smelling of liquor and cigarettes in a way that makes Richard’s stomach churn unpleasantly.

But he’s hungry. Starving.

It’s a quiet night, an unpopular location far from the house, which he’d gone to painstaking lengths to ensure. Unexplained nightly absences, locking his bedroom door and climbing out the window. It was the teenage delinquent experience he never had nor wanted.

“Whatcha drinking?” Richard asks. He tries to sit up straighter, bolder. He feels like a cheap imitation, a cardboard cutout.

The man regards him with a cool look, and for a moment Richard thinks he isn’t going to answer until, “Whiskey.”

“L— let me buy you one.” With two fingers, he summons the bartender and two drinks are poured out; neat and nice. Very much unlike how Richard feels right now. He stopped putting any semblance of effort into his appearance last week, realizing that these people didn’t care if he combed his hair or put on cologne.

 

The man— Robert, he later finds out— shoves his dick down Richard’s throat in the dingy bathroom stall, a slew of slurs and names falling from his lips and onto Richard. 

“Faggot,” he curses, pulling Richard until the back of his dick hits his throat. “You like doing this, don’t you? Buying guys like me drinks at the bar, letting them fuck your mouth.”

He tears up, he can’t help it. This isn’t what he wanted, it never is, but he has to take it. He has to, or else he thinks he might just die. Robert chokes him with a painful series of finishing thrusts, cum and saliva pooling at the edges of Richard’s mouth, and then yanks him up to jerk him off quick and joyless. Richard wasn’t even hard.

Richard stands there, dazed. One hand rests on the wall of the bathroom stall and he’s wiping his mouth with the back of the other. His sweater sleeve is stained, and it makes him sick.

“Thanks for the whiskey,” Robert says.

He doesn’t wait for Richard’s response, which is fine. He doesn’t have one. 

He never does.

—

It happened about three weeks ago, he thinks, sitting in the backseat of the Lyft back from the bar. The tepid night life of Palo Alto passes him by and Richard lets his head loll against the window in a childish display of self-pity. He thinks he might be warranted this time though. Even the Lyft driver had seen what a state he’d been in and given him a flash of pity. 

Three weeks and he’s only now reflecting on it, on the emotional brunt of the situation. He’d researched the objective facts inside and out, read articles and crackpot theory websites until his eyes went dry. It almost felt like high school again. Except back then, he wouldn’t have believed even a fraction of this bullshit. But now, here he is, undeniably a believer. 

He’s an incubus. The word itself, even in the confines of his mind, rattles unsettlingly. Cruelly.

He’d tried to deny it, of course he did, but when the gauntness began to stretch across his face with alarming rapidity, deepening the hollowness of his eyes, the lines in his frown, he knew. 

Just after the first week, he’d started blacking out. Jared had been sick with worry, and after the first few times, even Dinesh and Gilfoyle would shoot him quiet looks of concern. It was then that Richard knew he had to take action, and  _ The Cat’s Cradle _ became his new go-to haunt. It’s a seedy place on the outskirts of the area, and traffic isn’t always voluminous, but Richard’s never been denied what he wants. A quick blowjob, a hand tugging fast and passionless.

He grabs scraps and snatches of what he needs to stay alive, the bare minimum with burning amounts of shame. More often than not he spends the next day huddled in his room; despondent, curled up in a blanket. The names race through his head, the faces blurring together.

 

The Lyft driver lets him out and Richard stands in the shower for an hour. 

He lets the water burn his skin clean. Thoughts of Robert wash out his mouth and down the drain, along with all the others.

He clears his schedule for tomorrow and crawls uselessly into bed.

— 

Jared watches him, he knows he does. He can see the concern etched into his face during the day, hears the quiet footsteps outside his door each night, a hand probably poised to knock, but then falling. Sometimes, laying in his bed, Richard thinks about telling him. Maybe Jared could even help him.

Jared would understand, wouldn’t he? 

Wouldn’t he? 

 

Richard is so hungry.

— 

Jared catches Richard sneaking in through the backdoor on a Thursday. They stand there, silhouettes in the low light, and Jared looks like a ghost almost. The doorway of the kitchen frames him and a lanky arm holds a glass of water. Wordlessly, he extends it to Richard. 

Richard who can’t look him in the eye. Richard who takes the glass and washes the taste of semen out of his mouth.

“Why’re you doing this?” Jared asks sadly. Not with disappointment, but with sorrow.

He knows. Not all of it, but he knows.

Richard sips at the water, drains it in an attempt to draw out the tense silence. His whole body feels awkward and he can smell the drying cum in his hair. He thinks about lying, but he doesn’t. He can’t seem to. “You wouldn’t believe me,” he says instead. 

“Richard, I always believe you.”

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? The easiest solution staring him in the face, handing him glasses of water and unfettered compassion. Always waiting and willing to believe Richard even when Richard can’t believe himself. For now, he shakes his head.

“Not right now, Jared.”

“Richard—”

He shoves the glass back into Jared’s hand. An act of aggression, a misdirected jab. The faces of the bathroom stall patrons flash before Richard’s eyes, and he shakes his head again, but this time to clear their ghastly visages from his vision. 

“Not right now.”

Jared nods. “I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped any lines, Richard. It wasn’t my intent to upset you.” The words flutter out his mouth and over to Richard. A gesture of kindness he never asks for, doesn’t feel he deserves. For the third time that night, he shakes his head.

“You’re fine. Just…” A hand scratches at his neck. Pulls at his earlobe. “Not right now.”

“I’ll be here whenever you need me.” 

Richard knows that he will, and that’s what scares him.

— 

A man whose name he doesn’t even bother to catch shoves Richard down on the hard wooden floor of his apartment. Richard doesn’t like doing this, going back to someone’s place, but the pickings were slim at the bar tonight, and he’d gone one too many days without feeding. He’d barely been able to drag himself out, and most people had taken one look at his frail, pale corpse and grimaced.

But this man had taken pity. Or maybe advantage. Richard doesn’t want to dwell on it right now. His apartment is lavish in a way that bleeds money; beautiful paneled floors, expensive nameless art on the wall, a bedroom with the softest sheets Richard has ever had his face shoved into. 

He’s stripped and teased and bound and fucked.

If he cries, the blindfold hides it. Hides it along with his guilt and embarrassment, that soul-sickening nausea that just seems to build and build like a skyscraper that’s hell bent on actually tearing the sky open. And Richard lets it.

He can feel the cum drying, tacky and thick, all over him.

This time, he doesn’t make it back until late morning. The man nearly hadn’t let him go. Richard passes by Jared and Dinesh and Gilfoyle, heads straight for the bathroom. Not to shower, not to wash, but to fester, curled up, in the bathtub.

Jared knocks six times that day.

Even Dinesh and Gilfoyle try once.

Richard doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even breathe until he hears them walk away.

 

He finds a turkey sandwich on wheat with a thermos of hot chamomile in his room. He cries in between mouthfuls of it. It doesn’t settle his hunger, not like it used to, but he devours the entire thing.

— 

“Let me help you,” Jared says because of course he does. It’s as if he’s just volunteered for something like tidying up the living room, or maybe helping Richard bring the groceries in. They’re sitting in the garage, Jared on his cot, Richard beside him. Knees touching. A hand hovers over Richard’s thigh. A silent question.

It’s been four days since Richard’s last eaten. The room tilts at a slow angle and the leaden feeling of his limbs grows with every passing second. But even the thought of the bar brings waves of panic washing over him.

So Richard nods. The hand slides up his thigh.

Jared kisses him and he nearly falls off the cot with surprise. He can’t remember the last time he’d been kissed, but he welcomes it with needy hands and a hungry heart.

 

Jared is slow, gentle with him like a frightened animal. He lays Richard down on the cot and hovers over him with a doting presence. Kisses down along his jawline, down along his collarbones, down along his chest.  He pushes when he has to, but pulls back when Richard trembles too much. He wipes away any tears with the pad of his thumb, and then slides it into Richard’s mouth for him to suck on.

“Is there a specific act that works best?”

Richard shakes his head. “Whatever you want,” he says. Delicate fingers wrap around Jared’s wrist and hold him there.

“I want what you want.” Jared means it.

Richard can’t stop the tears that dribble down his chin.

“I don’t want to feel bad after.”

Jared sucks in a breath, nods. He kisses him again.

“Never again.”

 

When he takes Richard into his mouth, he nearly blacks out. Jared sucks at the head of his dick, tongue swirling around the tip, teasing. He kisses it and traces a vein with his thumb, following it with his tongue, slick and hot. Richard watches the entire thing, the nigh worship of him, and he twists and fidgets under the attention. 

His hips buck once, twice— and then he’s cumming. Jared swallows it down, throat bobbing with the effort, but he makes quick work of it. It’s neat and nice; no evidence of what’d just transpired other than the cum-spit slick red lips on Jared. 

 

Two fingers has Richard squirming. Three has him on the verge of more tears. When Jared finally pushes inside him, generous amounts of lube coating him, Richard’s hands turn the same shade of white as the sheets he’s gripping.

It feels holy.

Jared licks along his ass afterwards, cleaning the cum in a filthy display. He drags him up by the shoulders for a kiss and Richard melts.

— 

Sometimes, when he’s laying on his back (“pillow princess,” one of the bar patrons had called him once), Richard thinks that he doesn’t deserve this. The tenderness, the concern. The devotion. Jared’s too loyal, he thinks. Too invested in the company, in Richard’s wellbeing. He can’t suss out why, part of him doesn’t want to. Not yet.

So sometimes he asks Jared to call him names. To hold him down. To humiliate him. It balances it out, the yearning, the guilt. The fear of something more.

Jared’s eyes are shut in concentration as he fucks Richard, leaning on his elbows, the cot squeaking. Richard thinks he could cum from just this, from watching Jared; the tips of his hair curled with sweat, his lip bit in determination, a hand creeping around Richard’s throat.

And then suddenly he is.

They drink tea together afterwards, sitting shoulder to shoulder, sharing a blanket. Richard is boneless with satisfaction, gluttonously full in a way he can’t remember ever feeling. Jared glows beside him in his own chirping way. 

And so he relaxes.

Richard leans against Jared.

— 

“You don’t go to the bar anymore, do you?” Jared asks one night. They’re on the couch, a movie playing in the dark. Hands had crept together, sleepwalking across pillows and laps until they found one another.

“What? No,” Richard says. “Not since we’ve— uh, you’ve… No.”

Jared grins, face lit by the flashing television. “Good.” Maybe it’s the obscurity of half-darkness, maybe something else, but Richard swears he sees something there. Something pleased, something possessive. A glimmer of half-crazed, wholly haunted desire.

Richard decides he likes it. It sets aflame another kind of hunger.

He doesn’t understand it still, doesn’t think he ever fully will, but he’s accepted it. Jared and him haven’t outlined the details, never really intended to, but it feels nice. Whatever this is. Maybe it was inevitable, or maybe Richard would’ve clung to the first kind person who offered to help him out. He’s not entirely certain, but he knows he’s glad that it’s Jared. 

They turn back to the movie and Richard burrows closer.

Jared lets him.


End file.
